Danger Zone
by ichitan
Summary: "Stop. Breathe. You need to get away from the desk and the pills and the scissors and you need to lie down and go to sleep. " Stiles has head a harsh few months, and Lydia has a tough road ahead of her, and for just one night they let the world crush them under it's weight. trigger warning for self-harm
1. The Courtesy Call

Don't think about Scott. Don't think about the time that slanty-jawed, wolf-faced fucker made out with her behind your back.

Don't think about Derek. Don't think about how he always looks down on you, because you're obviously just a burden, and a pathetic human that he's now feeling increasingly responsible for. Speaking of, try not to think about how absolutely weak and slow you are compared to them. After all, it seems like you're the only damn human left in Beacon Hills.

Don't you fucking think about Peter Hale. Don't think about how he hurt her, and how absolutely helpless you were to protect her when he attacked, and how, when he offered to make you more suited to do so—to make you one of them—you refused like the moron you are.

Don't think about Jackson. Just don't. Don't. Don't—damn, now you can't get the image of him out of your head. He's naked, and she's naked, and they're tangled together, groping and breathing hard and—great, now you're thinking about Jackson naked.

Don't think about _her_. Really, you don't want to. You absolutely don't want to think about her strawberry-blonde hair and the way it falls down her back; her soft, scarlet lips, and how round and perfect they would be to kiss; the stupidly cute look of disbelief she gave you when she found all those gifts you bought her; how happy she was at the dance when you told her she would win the Field's medal for mathematics; how graceful she is at ice skating.

You absolutely don't want to think about how those last two were ruined by Peter Hale—Jesus Christ, stop thinking about Peter Hale—or about how every fucking time you and her are together, something happens and you can't do anything to keep her to yourself for just a minute longer. You absolutely don't want to think about—

No, stop it, now you're at it again. Put it down. You can do this. Breathe.

Don't think about mom because then you might remember she's dead.

Don't think about dad. Don't think about how now you're his responsibility. You, asshat.

Dad's got a big enough mess on his plate, and werewolves and kanima are way out of his simple police department's league—the last thing he needs is his hyper-active, god damned depressed, sneaky-ass weasel of a son messing things up for him.

Don't think about—

why are you doing this you just keep thinking about the exact things you're telling yourself not to think about this is all so counterproductive holy shit.

Stop. Breathe.

You need to get away from the desk and the pills and the scissors and you need to lie down and go to sleep.

The clock says it's only 6:30 in the afternoon.

Well, you always have told yourself you should start sleeping more.

You pull your undershirt and hoodie up over your head and toss them to the floor before crawling into bed with your tail between your legs, the red lines on your wrist marking yet another loss to yourself. You press your lips to your arm, trying to make the blood less obvious on your paper-white skin, and that's when the shaking begins.

You try to take some deep breaths, calm yourself down again. Maybe it's the Adderall, or maybe you're too anxious—either way, you need to stop. You keep telling yourself it needs to end, and that you are in control.

_I am in control. I can do this._

You squeeze your eyes closed, try breathing deeply, but you can't calm down.

These shakes are always the worst.

_Maybe I can't do this._

There's a crescendo—your legs kick violently on the bed, and your torso heaves and shakes as you slam your arms on either side of you, trying to steel yourself under the sheets. The springs under the mattress squeak, and there's a dull cacophony of thuds that accompany each individual spasm. You haven't done this shit since mom died.

"Stiles?" your dad calls from down the hall in his empty bedroom.

"Yeah?" you respond, grateful your body has decided to stop recreating scenes from the Exorcism of Emily Rose before you start vomiting pea soup.

"You okay in there?" He sounds like he's getting up, coming to check on you.

A small "I'm fine, dad" forces its way out of your throat. He either didn't notice the crack in your voice or elected to ignore it. Either way, you're grateful when the sound of footsteps stops, then recedes back into the direction of the lonely master bedroom.

_Come on, you dick_, you chastise yourself. That man's wife is dead—the only woman he has presumably ever loved is rotting in some ditch in the dirt—and he still holds himself high. He's a great man, and here you are, a whiny little teenager with a few werewolf problems, acting like it's the end of the world.

You really are pathetic.

You're the most pathetic son of a bitch in this entire city, maybe you really should just—

No, don't think that.

No, you really are a loser. Just stop being such a burden on everyone and—

You do this every night. For once, just go to sleep without beating yourself up. You're not so bad.

Yes you are and who the fuck is knocking at the door it is 7:00 and you were in the middle of channeling your inner Gollum/Smeagol routine.

You groan as the knocking continues, thinking of it as nothing more than a minor annoyance—a repetitive sound keeping you from sleeping—but then you realize it means someone wants something and you clam up. Who the hell could it be?

"Stiles," Dad calls, "get the door!"

"I'm in bed," you grumble, rolling over to bury your head in the mattress.

You hear a faint sigh, and the sound of footsteps. It's weird, and unnecessary, but when they pass in front of your door, you tense up. For what feels like 2 seconds too long, you hold your breath, but then they're gone, and you begin to wonder if maybe it really is just the pills making you so jumpy, because there's no sensible reason for that to give you a panic attack.

What sounds like pleasant conversation bubbles up from downstairs and you try to hear for any indication whether or not the person at the door is there for you.

You take the subsequent sound of two pairs of feet marching up the stairwell as a big enough clue.

_Please don't be Scott. Please don't be Derek. Please, for the love of all that is holy, don't be Jackson naked. No, stop thinking about Jackson naked!_

You can't, he's hot (hotter than you'll ever be, at least).

_Damn it._

"Stiles," your dad says, opening the door slowly, "Lydia's here to see you."

With just those few words, your heart races, and you're angry and confused and you hate yourself all over again—_Swear to God, I'd be fucked if I were a werewolf._

But you can't just turn her away. She's obviously here for something important, otherwise she wouldn't have come. You push off the bed sheets—which had clung to your sweaty chest—and force yourself to sit up.

"Come in," you mumble, tugging on the hoodie you had haphazardly thrown at the foot of your bed.

Lydia steps in quietly, and you swallow hard. She's not wearing much make-up—nothing to bring out her eyes or her lips or the definition of her cheekbones—and her hair falls knotted and tangled down her shoulders. She barely looks like herself. The last time you saw her so disheveled, she'd spent two days running around naked in the woods.

But there was something else, and when your dad leaves and she steps further into the light, you can see that her eyes are a little puffy, as if she's been crying.

"Lydia, what's wrong?!" you can't help but ask, panic flooding your thoughts.

"Nothing," she half-mumbles, putting on her award-winning smile.

"Lydia," you urge, and her lips tremble, but the edges of her lips stay upright.

"I, uh, you know. Wanted, to come visit, you know?"

She looks for somewhere to sit, deciding finally on your computer chair.

There's an awkward silence as she untangles a knot in her hair. "Jackson—" she blurts, but she's cut off by your dad.

"Stiles, I just got called in. There was a robbery at the drug store. I'll be back…soon." He nods to you on his way past your door, and you return the gesture absently, only half listening while you look at Lydia, who is struggling to put together her thoughts—a decidedly un-Lydia thing to do.

"Jackson?" you quietly offer once you hear the front door slam shut.

"He left last night."

You were about to start offering his…condolences, or whatever you would call it when the person isn't dead, but she kept going. "I—I mean, it's not like it was out of the blue or anything, we'd discussed it. After the whole…kanima thing…Gosh, I still feel weird even saying that. Well, after everything, and talking it over with Derek…I don't know, they decided it was best he left. I'm not even…That's not even why I came over here. God, you must think I'm horrible coming to you because my boyfriend left, considering you, you know, whatever. No, God, no I'm not here because of that. Not entirely. I mean, yeah I'm upset about it, too, like, really upset, you know? But—"

She pauses, inhaling sharply, trying to regain her composure.

"Whew, I, uh, really lost it there for a second. Sorry."

"It's…fine. Go on."

She takes another strand of hair and wraps it around her finger, but not in a ditzy sort of way. She's the furthest you could possibly get from that right now. Lydia's been fidgeting since she walked into the room, she just needed to busy her hands with something.

"So. You know about those…freaky visions I've been having?"

"Having?" You ask, concern bubbling again. "As in, present tense?"

"Yeah," she says on a shaky breath. "Yeah, as in present tense."

"I thought those went away after Peter came back!" You can't control your tone.

"Things were—a little hectic in that home stretch, ok?" Lydia's voice is shrill, panicked. "And, you know, for a week or two, I was…so fine! But, I don't know, they aren't gone _gone_ yet, and I can't turn them off, and I don't know…what they mean, and I'm scared, and I am nervous, and I need you to to calm down because you're visibly tense right now and It's going to make me hysterical, so, please!"

You didn't realize you had stood up and taken several steps close to her, or that literally every muscle in your body had clenched. Even your butt muscles.

"Sorry, sorry." You go back to the bed, sitting further from her than before. She needs space.

"I'm just really overwhelmed," she says after a slight pause. "Jackson leaving, these visions, werewolves, teenage hormones…" Her voice trails off as she looks over at your desk, her eyebrows knitting. You curse to yourself when she picks up the scissors you left bloody on the counter.

"Stiles," Lydia says quietly, her eyes fixated on the dull metal blades.

You panic. "Lydia, please, put it down, it's just—"

"Stiles," she says again, quieter. "I know."

What.

What does she know? You hurt yourself? The scissors seemed to be some pretty damning evidence, and it wasn't like Lydia to state the obvious. She knew how you felt? Unlikely, even you didn't want to look at that unhealthy knot of emotions.

She reaches her hand out, and you subconsciously slip your wrist into her tiny fingers.

"I told you, I've been seeing things." Her voice is so quiet, you almost can't hear her. "This is why I came."

She delicately pulls the sleeve of your hoodie up past your elbow, looking somberly at the reddish lines running across your pale skin.

"You've gotten so good at smiling," she says after what feels like hours, pulling the sleeve back down. Her eyelids are fluttering like mad as she looks up at you, blinking away whatever tears are threatening to ruin her makeup.

"Lydia, it's ok. I was…being a dumb kid, you know? It happens."

"I know," she says again, pulling down her knee-highs. Dozens of thin lines run up and down her otherwise-flawless legs, and your breath catches.

A few small tears manage to snake down Lydia's cheek, but the two of you stare at each other's damaged selves in still silence.

"What are we doing," you finally say with only slightly forced laughter. You throw your arms out, gesturing to…everything. "Seriously? What the hell is wrong with us?!" You run your hands through your short hair, looking around. "It's, like, a Friday night? My dad won't be home until God-knows-when…"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying…"

What _are_ you saying?

"I'm _saying_, let's get drunk and fucking—I don't even know, let's just do it."

"Do it?"

Lydia raises an eyebrow. You realize what she thinks you mean and immediately correct yourself.

"Not that. It. Like. I don't know, be the stupid hormonal teenagers we are. Let's blow this pit up. The two of us."


	2. The Cold Boot

The two of you are lying on the floor, staring at each other through the empty bottle of Jack between you.

"You are so drunk," you half-mumble, half-laugh. She giggles, a bubbly, almost-wonderful sound.

"You are, too," she insists.

"Lydia, you drank like…the whole damn bottle. I had maybe a sip."

If you were less tipsy, you'd probably recall you'd actually had something closer to 4 or 5 shots throughout the course of the night.

"Whatever," Lydia says, rolling onto her stomach, her voice muffled by the carpet. Considering how much she'd had to drink, you're surprised she's only just crashing now. You would've passed out hours ago.

"Are you going to sleep?" you tease, reaching out to tug her ear. She swats your hand away lazily before pulling herself up, resting on her elbows. She sucks her cheeks in and looks ahead to nothing in particular.

"I'm just so tired," she says after a while.

"Because you're drunk and it's, like, 3 in the morning," you say, rubbing your eyes. Your buzz is starting to die off, and it feels like a lead weight has started to form in the back of your brain. You want to curl up and sleep for the next forever.

"I mean…." There's a pause as her drunken mind tries to catch her lost thought. "I mean in general, you know?"

You stare at your ceiling before you mutter in agreement.

"No one talks to me anymore," she says quietly. "I mean, aside from you…"

You sit up, looking over to her milky-white legs. A bold hand reaches out—slender, bony fingers curling around the silky white fabric of her tights. When she doesn't react, you tug them down. The thin red lines stand out against her pale legs.

What's wrong with you?

Nothing. I'm a teenager.

You're taking advantage of her. You piece of shit.

You hate yourself as you move closer, and she turns to lay on her back and watch as you situate yourself between her legs. You bring her bony ankle up your lips, pressing them to her scabbed flesh.

Her eyelids flutter, and her shoulders flush, and you kiss her leg up and up, leaning down, your cheek is on her thigh, your hand on her hip, her delicate hip, and her blood is rushing, you can swear you hear it,

"What is it?" she breathes when you don't move any further.

"I'm just so tired," you sigh, ignoring the stiffening in your jeans.

She doesn't look too disappointed. Her arms go up behind her head, blindly searching the carpet until her fingers curl around the handle of the pair of scissors that…wait how the hell did they get there? You distinctly remembered them being on the desk.

Lydia looked at the pair of blades, a blank expression on her fine face.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

She slashes the blade across her cheek, barely even reacting.

You bolt upright, reaching for her wrist. She fights you back, digging her tiny feet into your chest, tears bubbling up in her eyelids.

"Lydia! Lydia, what the fuck?!" She is screeching, kicking, trying not to cry as she tries to put the scissors to her face again. "Lydia, please! Stop!" Your voice is catching on sobs, and your eyes sting, because you're not even really trying to fight back, and you should be, you fucker, but what's the point?

The next few hours are a blur, but there's blood on the carpet, and you vaguely recall the taste of bile in your throat as your dad screams at you and Lydia. His face looks kind of red from behind your half-closed eyelids.

Is he crying? Why does he sound so sad?

Stop that.

_You can't be sad._

_Stop that._

_I don't want to think of this anymore._

You give in to the calm and the quiet, but you just barely recognize the familiar feeling of your dad's body as he gathers you into his arms.


	3. The Return

It feels like a lead weight on your stomach when you finally wake up. That's not even something you really expected you'd even do—look at you, pushing the limits. Who cares about immense pain when you outdo your own expectation—oh wow holy shit that hurt.

_Slow down there, tiger._

_Not so fast._

…

Mom?

…

_Stiles?_

**Not** Mom.

You try and open your eyes. Everything's sort of fuzzy and hurts to look at, like when you stare at the sun for too long.

"Stiles?"

"Ms. McCall?" Your voice sounds groggy, drugged, and it feels like jagged rocks are rubbing against your windpipe when you speak.

Ms. McCall's expression makes you feel awful, a worried and pitiful look hidden behind a forced smile.

"Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?"

Physically? Sick, uncomfortable, hot, hungry, thirsty, 0/10 would not recommend. Mentally. Ehh, less ok.

"Kinda hungry," you decide.

She laughs. "Well, we can't feed you just yet. Sorry."

You rub your eyes and feel a sharp sting and some pull on the back of your hand. There's an IV taped to your skin.

Looking around, you realize you're in a hospital. That explains Ms. McCall.

"I'm going to go get your dad," she offers quietly, getting up. You want to ask about Lydia, but you're too tired and overwhelmed at the moment to be able to properly process whatever she would tell you. A few possible scenarios run through your mind while she's gone, the worst being that Lydia is dead. You find yourself unable to really care right now. You figure it's the drugs.

Ms. McCall comes back a few moments later, your dad walking in behind her. He looks hardly like the man you're so used to him being—strong, brave, a hero to society. Right now he looks exhausted, miserable, and deflated. You haven't seen your dad like that in years.

But he's also trying to be brave, trying to smile.

"Hey, son," he says, his voice faltering only a little.

"Hi, dad," you mutter.

The room is so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

"Right, well, I'm going to go check on Lydia," Ms. McCall says quickly, rushing out of the stiflingly awkward room. You wish you could go with her. To be honest, you wish you could be literally anywhere but right in this hospital bed.

Once she leaves, it's just you and your dad, desperately trying to think of something to say.

"So…What happened?" you decide to ask. The whole night feels like one sick blur. You don't remember much except pain, and drunken fighting, and a small pill bottle.

"Why don't you tell me?" he asks.

"I can't remember anything."

Your dad draws in a shaky breath, looking down and rubbing his jaw.

"I found you and Lydia half-conscious on the floor of your room. Lydia looked like she was going to bleed out and you were choking on your own vomit. That was around 5 in the morning on Wednesday."

"What's today?"

"Friday."

You let that knowledge sink in.

"Son, w—"

"You let Lydia in. She was the last person I wanted to see and you let her in." You say aggressively. You know you shouldn't—you have no right to blame him.

"So you try to kill each other!?" he booms.

"That's not it."

There's a long stretch of silence, and you feel the tremors start to build up again.

"Then what?" Dad's exasperated and desperate. "Why do I hear your bed frame squeaking every night? I know you don't have a girl in there. Why do you always wear long sleeve shirts, even though it's 80 degrees out? Why did I have to come home to you, half dead on the bedroom floor, cuts all up and down your body?"

"Lydia's into some kinky shit," you say with as good a laugh as you can fake.

He's crumpled up on the edge of your bed, his hands curled tightly around the arm rest.

"Stiles, please. No jokes…"

You feel like you'll start to shake any minute, but instead you cry.

Just a few pesky tear drops at first, regenerating with each blink as you try pathetically to hold it back, but it feels like you've hit a wall, and you break down.

"I'm sorry, Dad," you manage to choke out as you sit there pathetically. You couldn't possibly feel worse. "It'd be better if I were dead."

There's a heavy silence as what you said sinks in, save for the sound of your pathetic sniffles. You'd never put those feelings into words. You'd never even allowed yourself to put them into complete thoughts. They were always just impulses—quick, short, painful moments, but you'd be fine in the morning.

But that?

Killing yourself was so final.

"…Why?" he asks, and you hate yourself even more. You can't remember the last time you saw your dad make that face. "Why would you even say that? What's wrong? Why can't you tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell," you croak.

He wraps his arms around you, much like he did when he found you. You start sobbing again.

"We'll get you help, Stiles. We'll get you help. No more funerals, ok?"

You nod into his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him as well as you can, but you're so weak.

"No more funerals, son. We'll get you help."

You don't see Lydia for another two days. As it turns out, she didn't die, thank God—she was in critical condition for a long time though.

You were there when she woke up, and you were there when they moved her into a regular hospital room, but you never said anything. She barely even looked at you.

Those cuts on her face still seriously painful. You hope yours don't look so bad. You hope hers don't hurt as much.

"Stiles?" your brand new psychiatrist asks, snapping you back to attention.

"What?"

"What were you thinking about?"

"Porn," you reply. She sighs.

"I'm going to need you to be honest with me, or this isn't going to work, Stiles. The law says we can't let you out of the hospital for a little longer, and if you don't cooperate…Well, let's just say it would really suck."

"I am being honest." You mutter, slumping further down in your chair. She nods, scribbles something down on her clipboard. You're 95% sure she's drawing a butterfly.

"Were you thinking about Lydia?" she asks, tapping the pen on her clipboard. You tense up, but don't say anything. "I was told the two of you were found together. You came in on the same night. No one seems to know what happened."

"Stupid things happened," you groan for what feels like the 50th time this week. "That's all. Won't happen again, officer. Promise."

She smirks. "Well, can you at least tell me about Lydia? You can tell me what happened another time."

"Lydia's…I don't know. She's Lydia. She's my friend. We've been working on a project together."

"A project?"

"A…Latin project. We're translating this book. She comes over a lot. We translate for a few hours. Talk. Sometimes we'll watch TV for a little bit. She goes home before too long."

"So you're…friends? Classmates? That's all?"

"I don't know, we're friends, we've been in the same classes since forever. We only got close recently."

"And how does that make you feel?" She jokes. You surrender a smile.

"Good. I've had a crush on her since third grade. I'm glad we're finally…getting along. She always used to ignore me."

"Now we're getting somewhere…"

"N-no. It's…That's it. We're just friends. Lydia doesn't…She doesn't like me like that."

"Does that…upset you?"

"I mean, I'm a little bummed out, but not enough to kill myself. Let's not get crazy, lady."

She scribbles some more.

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you may be trying to…lessen the severit—"

"Look, if I tell you what happened the other night will you stop trying to psychoanalyze me for today? I'm exhausted. That's all you guys want, right? A story?"

She bites her lip. "I'm not here for any reason other than to help you."

"So do you want to hear it or not."

She lets you speak.


	4. The Surprise

Four days pass and you're pretty sure you're ready to bash your own skull in out of sheer boredom. All of this werewolf drama lately has made you forget how comparatively dull real life can be, and being stranded in a hospital for a week only emphasizes this.

"I guess I'm just stressed," you finally mumble into your hand. Your therapist smiles. It's the first honest thing you've told her in days.

"Why are you so stressed, do you think?"

"I don't know, because I'm being held in a hospital where some shrink is trying to pick my brain apart," you snap, scratching at the gauze on your arms. She doesn't react. A pang of guilt surges through your chest and you soften.

"Sorry."

"It's fine." She smiles.

You're grateful they switched out your first therapist with Ms. Morrell. You feel as though she understands a little bit better—and that she knows more than she lets on. Granted, it was a little unsettling at first, but she is your guidance counselor, and she's given you good advice in the past. Besides, when you requested her, she was more than willing to come.

"It could be…this project with Lydia…school, friends…" You struggle to think of normal stressors—ones that don't involve monsters.

"Why are your friends stressing you out?"

You think for a minute. You'd said that as a cop-out, a way to avoid the "w" word, but it wasn't a lie, not really.

"I feel like I'm…dragging them down. Like even my best friend is leaving me for his own pack. Like all he cares about is his girlfriend, and Derek and the rest of them. I feel like he's ditching me for some jerk named Isaac…I shouldn't say that, Isaac's not so bad, I just. Scott's my best friend. I don't know. I'm worried, and I shouldn't be. I should trust Scott more, _since_ he's my best friend. I should be happy he's making friends and fitting in, but they're…they're definitely not a good crowd."

"It sounds like you're very protective of him."

You rub the bandage on your face. "Yeah…Him, Lydia, Allison, even that dickwad Jackson…I know they can all…handle themselves, without a doubt better than I could, but I still feel like it's my job. I don't know, maybe I learned it from my dad."

Ms. Morrell lets out a discreet giggle. You didn't even think that was physically possible.

"What do you mean, 'better than you could'?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

"It doesn't matter, the session is over," you say quickly. She purses her lips, obviously frustrated by another question dodged, but the edges of her mouth curl up into a smile before long. You return it like the annoying little shit you are.

"Technically, I still have you for another 3 minutes," she says, looking down at her watch, "but we can end early. I think you have a visitor." She gets up to go, and you look after her curiously. When she opens the door, a very startled Lydia takes a few steps back.

"Hello, Lydia."

"Hi Ms. Morrell."

The guidance counselor walks around Lydia, closing the door as she leaves. You and her look at each other quietly for a good few seconds without saying anything. You think she looks rather like a deer in headlights.

"What's that in your hands?" you ask, referring to the piece of paper she was pressing tightly to her chest. She presses her lips together when you address her before walking over and handing it to you. You unfold the crumbled paper to find a very effeminately-drawn smiley face staring up at you.

"So," you say, smiling, "you're the one who's been sneaking these under my door?" You put the paper down on your nightstand, where it joins a week's worth of similar drawings.

"Who else would it be?" she asks, looking at you like you're an idiot.

"I don't know. It never occurred to me that it might be you because it's not a very…Lydia-like thing to do, leave dopey pieces of paper under my door."

"What do you mean, not a Lydia-like thing to do?" She looks somewhat offended. "Are you saying I can't do something nice for a friend?"

Crossing her arms, Lydia moves over to your bed and sits down, picking the drawings up off your nightstand and looking through them. "I can be nice. Besides, I feel like…I feel like you could use some cheering up. We wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me. I thought maybe I owed you."

"Lydia, come on, you know that's not t—"

"Before you continue that sentence, I want you to stop and think about what you would've done that night if I hadn't come over."

"Before you continue believing that you're entirely at fault here, I want you to stop and think about what I was doing before you came over. It would've just gotten worse and worse eventually. We'd both be here in the end."

The two of you are at an impasse and she frowns.

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

"Avoiding _you_?" You stare at her incredulously. She returns the look, seemingly baffled, her green eyes wide with confusion. "Lydia," you continue, "every time I so much as look at you, you turn in the other direction. You haven't said a word to me since that night."

"When has me ignoring you ever stopped you from trying to talk to me?" she snaps back. "Besides, I drew you all these dumb smiley faces." She waves them in front of her for emphasis, and you realize she has some very valid points.

"Sorry," you say, rubbing the bridge of your nose. "I just…I wanted to be left alone, and I figured you'd felt the same…"

Lydia nods, accepting your excuse.

As you sit in silence, you realize how different this Lydia looks from the Lydia you're so used to. Her skin is dry, pale, and flakey, and her perfect face is dotted in acne—no doubt due at least somewhat to the overwhelming stress of this past week. Scars and scabs run up and down the sides of her face, arms, and legs. One cuts right down her chapped lips, but you remember giving her that one by accident when you tried to pry the scissors from her—the recoil from some of your tugs gave you matching scabs on your chin and collar. Shocks of strawberry blonde hair stick out from behind her ears, the top of her head, and the back of her hastily done ponytail, although you'd hardly call her hair something that sounds quite so healthy as "strawberry blonde." It was more the color of a very old boxing glove that may have been brown at one point, but it could've also been red, and no one's really sure where it came from exactly so you sort of chuck it back into the box in the locker room you found it in while trying to find your long-lost jock strap. Speaking of hair, she hasn't shaved her legs all week, which you probably wouldn't have noticed normally, but you're trying to capture her exactly the way she is, right down to every imperfection.

She looks absolutely awful, and for the first time you feel like you may just be seeing her for the human she's always been.

"Hey, it's ok, Stiles," she says when you don't say anything for a while. You snap back to attention. "I'm not mad."

Lydia smiles and it feels as though a vice on your rib cage has lessened its grip, as though you can breathe a little easier.

"It's cool," you say, returning the smile. She gets up, putting the smiley faces back down on your nightstand and moves to leave, but not before stopping by your seat in the corner.

"Hey, we'll be fine. It's not my first time in this hellhole."

You stare at her, arching an eyebrow. "Lydia, the last time you were in here, you ran out of the shower naked and went missing for two days."

Her pleasant expression sours a bit and she pinches your cheek. "We don't talk about that."

One minute later, Lydia's gone and you're left leafing through the patterned paper faces she left behind, smiling to yourself.


	5. The Escape

**a/n: **hello, i've sort of not been adding any author's notes to these chapters, just sending them in blindly for you to read, but i would just like to say thank you very much for all the views and visits, it really makes me happy because i didn't think anyone read my fanfic. i'd like to ask that if it's not too much trouble, could you all _please leave reviews_? not to be mean of course, i don't want to force you or make you feel compelled, but i'm curious as to what you all have to say, because i've not gotten any feedback on here, tumblr, or ao3. if you do take the time to write one, thank you from the bottom of my heart and i sincerely hope you have a swell day. (･ω･)

Your drawing isn't coming out how you want it to and it's really frustrating. Lydia insists it looks correct, but you just know there's something off about…something, although you can't put your finger on it. She reaches over your doodle to grab a pink crayon, and you look over to see that she's not even drawing—a series of mathematical equations (written in a myriad of colors) are lined up on her paper. You look back down at your drawing—it's your old pet boa eating a mouse. You would've drawn something else, but your abilities are limited to simple, limbless reptiles and the occasional stick figure.

Group activities always seem to drag on, but at least you try to be more social than Lydia, who spends most of her time mindlessly carrying out the planned games and crafts while she picks at her nails and whispers to you gossip about the other girls in your grade—gossip from _where_, you have no clue, seeing as she had her phone confiscated when she was admitted.

"Stiles, this is old news," she says when you point that out. "Geez, how out of the loop are you?"

You shrug and return to coloring in your snake, which is beginning to look less like your old pet and more like a sad banana.

"What's up with the yellow condom," Lydia asks once you set down your crayons.

You frown. "It's my snake."

"Is that a…reference?"

You feel your ears turn red as you reply, "N-no! It's my pet boa! My dad made me give it away when it got too big."

"Oh."

"And what are you doing?" you ask, leaning over to look at her ever growing list of math problems.

"It's the mathematical description of a cipherment operation utilized by the Enigma machine. I've been trying to teach myself how to figure it out. I had my mom bring me a book on it."

"The Enigma machine? Didn't like…half of Europe's most brilliant minds take years to figure that thing out?"

"And with a little help from their research, why shouldn't I be able to do it by the time I get out of this place?" Lydia flashes a smile and continues her work as you look back down at your sad banana-boa.

The next day is much of the same, with mindless chatter about who is dating who and what equation will output which letter. You wonder how the same girl who puts so much stock into trivial high school bullshit got so interested in World War II-era ciphers.

The only difference between that night and the others is that around 1AM, Lydia snuck into your room. She sat down in the chair next to your bed and you roll over to look at her.

"What?" you ask quietly. She purses her lips in thought. "Nothing, I guess."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"You snuck into my room at one in the morning for absolutely no reason."

"I couldn't sleep."

She reaches out to play with your fingers, which were dangling off the edge of the bed. Your sleep-addled mind struggles to remember that Lydia is still really unstable, but not before you snatch your hand away. When she makes a face, you give her back your hand, trying to cover up the action with a smile.

You feel a little better about yourself, seeing how much comfort she finds in you, even if she doesn't have any other options in the psych ward. You take what you can get.

"I had a nightmare," she says quietly, tugging on your thumb. "About Peter."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Lydia responds with a curt cliché: "What's dead should stay dead."

You nod. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes while she traces the veins on your hand, ending with a gash on your wrist.

"Are you hungry?" you ask her while she idly peels at the scab.

"It's bad for your digestion if you eat right before sleeping."

"Who said anything about sleeping? I asked if you were hungry."

"Are you not planning on sleeping after going on a forbidden food run?"

"Not really. I can't sleep either."

Ten minutes later the two of you are down the hall, looking around anxiously to make sure none of the employees see you getting into the elevator. You don't know why you're doing this. You're not really hungry, and you're pretty sure Lydia isn't either. Hell, you don't even know if the hospital's cafeteria is even open at this hour, but that room—scratch that, that entire wing—is so stifling, you feel like if you spend another minute up there you'll lose your mind.

Wordlessly, the two of you tiptoe your way out of the elevator and across the small lobby to the main hallway, sticking close to the walls in case you have to duck down a corridor to hide from any staff members. Sure enough, as you approach the cafeteria you can see that it's quite clearly closed. Lydia sighs, turning back towards the lobby, but you grab her arm.

"It's closed, Stiles."

"Yeah but…the vending machines aren't."

"We don't even have any money."

You sigh, too, and let go of her arm.

"This was a dumb idea anyway," you mutter, turning around. The two of you head back the way you came, acting much less mission impossible now that your plan failed.

"At least we got out of our rooms," she offers. The rest of the walk is pretty much silent, until you get into the elevator. She moves to push the button for the fourth floor, but you stop her before she can.

"Wait," you say, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Lydia turns to face you and you take a deep breath and dive right in.

It's incredibly awkward, kissing her in the elevator. Mostly because you've never actually kissed anyone before. You just sort of press your lips to hers—softly, you hope—and guess that if she's down then she'll guide you from there.

She doesn't. She doesn't pull away either and the seconds sort of drag on and you couldn't possibly be more mortified holy shit what if this is one of those weird girl things what if she's waiting for you to realize you've done something wrong what if she—

You pull back quickly, terrified.

"S-Sorry."

Lydia shakes her head slightly. "It's okay," she says quietly, turning to push the elevator button. As the lift ascends, your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. Time could not go by any slower.

The two of you get off on the fourth floor, and you make an immediate beeline for your room. Lydia turns to go to hers, but stops.

"Stiles," she says, and you pause.

"What?"

She purses her lips, debating something, and then moves over to you. "Sleep well."

On her tip toes, Lydia leans up and kisses your lips. Like an electric shock, it's there and gone before you can even blink, and it leaves you weak in your knees.


End file.
